


Bad Prophecy, Better Company

by Hallianna



Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apologies, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, M/M, Mentioned Geralt/Lambert, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yuletide, jaskier au, jaskier origins au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: “What the fuck?” Geralt spat, dragging the man to his feet before thrusting him up against the wall. He leaned in menacingly, amber eyes flashing. “Who are you?”“A performer!” The man squeaked, raising his hands and flinching away from Geralt. “Hired by ealdorman to perform a bit of mummery! I’m the spirit of Yuletide!”Geralt leaned in closer. “And the bit about feasting on the living flesh?”The man stank of panic but he managed to answer. “Performer’s license! The old graveyard here has several ghost stories around it, so I played into that!” He swallowed hard. “I was only supposed to spook them in good fun, I swear! Look, the rest of my company!” He pointed a shaking finger behind Geralt.Geralt growled and tightened his grip on the man’s collar before looking back.“Just a bit of fun,” the man repeated, this time more quietly. “Witcher, I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause alarm.”Another Jaskier Origins AU, featuring Performer/Playwright!Jaskier
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069358
Comments: 44
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so bard and playwright aren’t far off from each other, but I had to do it. I definitely recommend reading the whole series cause the origins vary but inevitably Jaskier causes trouble and that's how he and Geralt meet ;)
> 
> The skulls are inspired by the Mari Lwyd from South Wales.
> 
> Smut comes (heh) later.
> 
> If you have ideas or prompts for more Jaskier origins AU, leave a comment! I’ll credit your idea and write it up if I can find the time!

Lambert kicked a rock with the toe of his boot and huffed. “Don’t see why both of us need to be on watch. It’s fucking Yuletide, we should be getting drunk.” His eyes glittered as a pretty brunette spun by him. “And getting fucked.”

Geralt resisted the urge to cuff him upside the head like an impertinent cub. “And when the entire festival gets attacked by wraiths?”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “It’s a prophecy, Geralt. Those things rarely are right.”

“Rarely. But still possible.”

“Fuck.” Lambert knew Geralt was right, but Yuletide was his favorite and he almost never was near a festival to celebrate. Even fewer ones that welcomed Witchers. They’d delayed their sojourn to Kaer Morhen because of this fucking prophecy and now he was here, surrounded by food and ale and spiced plum wine and very good looking villagers. The air smelled of pine and holly and wood smoke, everyone was decked out in their finest clothes, and he and Geralt were watching the swirl of dancers and revelers, looking for signs of a fucking monster.

So yes, he was grouchy.

Geralt caught sight of the rather beautiful woman who had been making eyes at Lambert since they’d arrived. He sighed. “Go. An hour. You see anything, you come right back.” He shot the younger Witcher an exasperated look. “Make sure your pants are up this time. Don’t want to mistake that thing for a monster, cut it off.”

Lambert punched Geralt on the arm. “Ha. Ha. At least you acknowledge it.” He winked. “Bigger than yours, ain’t it?” He was quickly swallowed by the crowd, leaving Geralt to his thoughts and a mug of ale.

Lambert had made himself look more approachable this night - muted armor, bright silver earrings, sheathed swords. He still looked like a _Witcher_ ; hard to ignore the amber eyes and scars. But Geralt hadn’t been interested in the same. The black armor stood out. His hair was too bright, even pulled back in a queue. He hadn’t shaved in several days, so the stubble on his jaw and cheeks was nearing short beard territory. And he was standing outside the writhing, swaying, steadily drinking crowd; arms crossed, eyes scanning for danger. The village ealdorman hadn’t blinked when they’d arrived but had pleaded with them to keep an eye on the festival.

“A witch!” She’d breathed conspiratorially, as if someone was there to overhear her blasphemy in the bright winter sunlight. “The curse upon our heads for two generations is supposed to come true tomorrow night! Ever since the Melton house was set on fire by a mob, that family’s been plagued by trouble. They say the daughter fled to the woods, was raised by all manner of foul creatures. Gained unnatural power and now she’s cursed us.”

Geralt had to acknowledge it had the makings of a proper curse, but it was complicated by stories from a local seer. A prophecy, the ealdorman said. That the curse would reach fulfillment on Yuletide night and a pack of wraiths would rise from the graveyard outside of town to terrorize and seek vengeance upon all who had wronged the Meltons.

Geralt _hated_ prophecies and deeply disliked most seers. Their hedge witchery was usually little more than clever tricks meant to cheat the unsuspecting out of their coin. But this seer had been, as far as he and Lambert could tell, legitimate; also very fearful of what she’d seen in a dream. The entire village attacked by wraiths, decimated in a short few moments, leaving behind blood and bones and ash.

He sighed again, finished his ale, and started walking a perimeter around the village. They’d laid down traps and protective runes around the graveyard earlier that day, but an entire pack of wraiths would overpower them. Nothing to do but wait and watch. Geralt let his senses expand out, looking for signs of necrotic energy.

A couple, their hands everywhere on each other, stumbled into him with a giggle. “Right then, Mister Witcher,” the one man said, not removing his hand from the other man’s pants. “Got room in here for a third, if you like.”

“Oh, I’d like,” the blonde man with him purred, batting pretty grey eyes at Geralt. “Bet he could lift us both with one hand.”

“Bet his cock’s a marvel,” the other man said, licking his lips and staring at Geralt’s crotch.

Geralt’s blood heated at the invitation, even though the two were very drunk and not his type. And he was on the job. _Fuck_. “Go find a stable,” he growled warningly, brushing by them as they quickly forgot his existence and began shoving their tongues in each other’s mouths. 

He grimaced and kept walking, desperate to ignore the way his body responded. It had been a long while since he’d lain with anyone, and rarely had interest in brothels these days. And that was _if_ he’d even had the coin for it. Maybe it was because he was getting older, or grouchier. Or both. And his hand, while sufficient, wasn’t the same as the heat of another’s body or the moans that could fill one’s ears.

Grumbling, he turned a corner near the general store and caught a flutter of something in his periphery. Instantly he crouched low, letting a puddle of shadow hide him. He glanced around the building as his hand went for the silver blade at his back. That flutter again - a ghostly white bit of fabric caught on the breeze, and Geralt cursed. A loose sheet, probably someone’s washing, was snagged over a boulder. He growled low and stood before stalking off to rejoin the festivities.

He couldn’t believe he almost tried to strike down a bedsheet. Lambert would have never let him hear the end of it.

A scream echoed in the square and Geralt’s heart kicked up at the sound. _Fear_. Clear as a bell. The smell of panic and sweat rose as he raced forward, sword now tightly held in his fist. The crowd surged around him, villagers scattering as a figure, diaphanous in a dirty sheet, stood on the stone dais in the middle of the square. The figure was crowned by an elk skull, garlands of moss, teeth and beads draped through its horns. A bloody handprint marked the front of the skull, the blood still fresh as it dripped down onto the sheet.

“I call upon you, oh ghosts of the past!” The figure roared, its voice oddly melodic over the screams of the crowd. “Rise and feast upon the living flesh here! I make my offering to you!”

The figure in the sheet was human, but whatever it was trying to do was dangerous. Blood and bones and horns and teeth never spelled anything good. Geralt didn’t hesitate for a moment. He rushed forward, pushing through the fleeing villagers, and leapt.

He and the elk skulled figure crashed to the ground, rolling until they hit the side of a nearby building. “Ow! Bloody hell, what the fuck?” The figure, now hopelessly tangled in its sheet, kicked and lashed out blindly, forcing Geralt to duck its fists and feet. 

Geralt breathed hard through his nose, waited, and then lashed out with his fist. One solid punch hit the figure’s gut and they went still. He balled up the sheet and ripped down the middle of it to reveal a dark haired man dressed in a stupidly bright green doublet and matching pants. His gorgeous blue eyes were nearly bugged out of their sockets as he gasped against Geralt’s punch. “What the fuck?” Geralt spat, dragging the man to his feet before thrusting him up against the wall. He leaned in menacingly, amber eyes flashing. “Who are you?”

“A performer!” The man squeaked, raising his hands and flinching away from Geralt. “Hired by ealdorman to perform a bit of mummery! I’m the spirit of Yuletide!”

Geralt leaned in closer. “And the bit about feasting on the living flesh?”

The man stank of panic but he managed to answer. “Performer’s license! The old graveyard here has several ghost stories around it, so I played into that!” He swallowed hard. “I was only supposed to spook them in good fun, I swear! Look, the rest of my company!” He pointed a shaking finger behind Geralt.

Geralt growled and tightened his grip on the man’s collar before looking back. The people of the village were metriculating back into the square, laughing at their fear and downing more ale. He saw more skulls - horse, deer, sheep - raised above the crowd as equally garishly dressed performers danced around, their garlands clacking and clanking. One of the performers struck up a familiar tune and soon the village was clapping and singing along.

“Just a bit of fun,” the man repeated, this time more quietly. “Witcher, I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause alarm.”

Geralt shoved the man away. “Go.”

The man started to obey but then his eyes widened and Geralt smelled the fear instantly. “Witcher….”

He turned, following the man’s gaze, and saw a ghostly, horrific figure hovering over the roof of the stable. “Lambert!” Geralt yelled as he took off toward the wraith. If he noticed the blue-eyed man following him at a distance, he didn’t care. He and Lambert were soon surrounded by moonwraiths, their dust dancing on the breeze and their screeching filling the air.

“I hate wraiths!” Lambert yelled as he dodged yet another claw swipe.

“More fighting, less talking!” Geralt yelled back as he narrowly ducked a wraith swooping overhead.

From the bushes, Jaskier watched the two Witchers fight. He should have been terrified - wraiths were the literal stuff of nightmares - but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the white-haired Witcher who had shoved him against a wall. The memory of that hot, hard body pressed into his was seared into Jaskier’s mind. “Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier breathed out.


	2. Chapter 2

“At least the seer wasn’t wrong,” Lambert said as he tucked his pay into a pouch at his side. “Color me surprised.”

Geralt grunted and double checked the strings on his purse. He hadn’t spotted pickpockets here but one could never be too careful. They’d wheedled more pay and rooms at the inn out of the ealdorman, who had conveniently forgotten to tell them about the performers she’d hired. What she thought would happen he had no clue, nor did he waste any time listening to her hasty excuses. 

He had a room and a bath waiting for him. That was all that mattered. He and Lambert parted ways at their rooms, but not before Geralt said, “Try not to bang around too much. Some of us need to sleep.”

Lambert gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “You need to have a bit of fun, Geralt. Go drink or play Gwent. Fuck someone pretty up against a door.” His grin turned lecherous. “Speaking of pretty….that blue eyed mummer you tackled was your type. Lithe. Nice hair. Had all his teeth.”

Geralt scratched his jaw, his glare doing nothing to Lambert; but then again, it never did. “Fuck off,” he said, but there was no heat in his words. He shut his door against Lambert’s laugh and examined the room. Clean, neat, but a bit small. It was still a room, and that meant no sleeping on the ground for the next few nights. They needed to keep watch on the graveyard for two more evenings. Wraiths were annoying but only a curse could force them to return, ripping them from their eternal rest to haunt and terrorize again. So he and Lambert would be sleeping during the day and patrolling at night until they could be certain the wraiths were gone and the curse banished.

He’d bunked down in worse places.

Geralt set about turning the room into something functional for a Witcher. Swords by the bed; armor piled neatly on a table so he could clean and tend to it; other table littered with alchemy supplies so he could refill potions. He was filthy with moonwraith dust and mud and his back itched where a freshly healed wound was still tight. A bath it was, then. One of the few pleasures on the road, outside of decent food and a bed.

And no, he wasn’t counting the touch of another. Not anymore. It’d been too long since someone had satisfied him in that way and he wasn’t seeking it out any longer. Too many risks for a few moments of pleasure. 

While he waited for the bath water, his gaze lingered on the wall separating his room from Lambert’s. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d tumbled together. Witchers could only trust other Witchers, and even that wasn’t always certain. But he could trust Lambert. Let the other man’s rough hands skim over his too hot skin, soothing away the beat of adrenaline that still thrummed in his veins. Lambert had a nice cock, not too heavy, not too thin, and he liked fucking face to face. Just thinking about it made Geralt flush and suddenly his skin felt too tight.

But Lambert had his pick of partners in almost any village. He was handsome, cocksure, and had a swagger that drew anyone’s gaze to a firm, round ass. No, Geralt wouldn’t spoil his fun this evening

As he made his upteenth path through the room, checking and rechecking supplies, a knock sounded at his door. “Water, sir.” The voice was young, probably the stablehand. A quick glance through the crack he opened in the door showed several buckets of steaming water, a flop of brown hair, and spectacles. The boy held up a bucket in front of his face. “I’ll be quick, sir!”

Geralt let him in without a word and turned back to his bundles of herbs. He was getting low on mungswort and elderberry, but he had enough for now. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy go to work, dumping buckets of water into the tub, then retreating to gather the rest.

A bath was the only pleasure he’d get this night, and that was more than enough.

As the youth passed him, he caught the scent of lavender and cedarwood. Expensive, ridiculously so, for a teenager. The back of Geralt’s neck prickled with awareness and suspicion. Another had smelled that way tonight.

He was across the room in two steps and had his fingers curled into the roughspun linen of the man’s shirt. Definitely a _man_ he was driving back into the door, the strength in the hands gripping his forearm more than from any physical labor. Ink stains on the fingers, instrument calluses on their tips. Hard chest under his.

Blue eyes - incredibly bright - staring wide at him.

“I’m sorry!” Ah, there was a voice he knew. The man from the bit of mummery in the town square. “I’m so sorry, Witcher. But I had to come apologize. My name is Jaskier and it’s my little company that messed everything up tonight.” The man’s words tumbled out, end over end, a landslide of apology and regret filling Geralt’s ears. No fear, though. A bit of panic spicing up his scent, but no fear.

The man continued. “And when I saw they were bringing water up to your room I offered.” His gaze fell away and he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Foolish, I know. I could have knocked but I figured you’d want to be alone after fighting and all that heroicness.” Now he looked up, grin cheeky. “You were _very_ heroic. You should have seen yourself. Incredible.” 

The man’s voice had gone breathless with wonder and something about the open worship of it hit Geralt in the gut. “What?” His voice sounded stunned to his own ears. “Are you addled? Drunk?”

Geralt shook the man a little but he held firm, his fingers indenting Geralt’s forearm. “No! I’m a performer and a playwright and someone who was - is! - very sorry that I caused any alarm tonight. Truly, I didn’t know about the curse you and the other Witcher were dealing with. I thought it was just a story.”

Geralt wrangled back the urge to growl. Most people didn’t apologize to a Witcher, and the few who did never meant it. But this one _did_. Truth smelled like clear running water over smooth stones or snow in pine trees. Crisp. Honest. Unfettered and unspoiled. There was no word Geralt could assign to the scent of this man’s truth, but he knew it instantly. “Fine. Now get out.” Geralt relinquished his hold and stepped back.

The man didn’t move. He kept his back pressed to the door but his eyes were fixed on Geralt. “I uh….wanted to thank you, as well. For not killing me.”

Geralt snorted. “I don’t kill humans unless they try to kill me.”

“Yes, but still. You could have.” Jaskier gulped and looked at Geralt’s hands, let his eyes linger on thick thighs. “I’ve had a fair share of brushes with death but tonight was the first one that made an impression.” Now Geralt rolled his eyes but it didn’t deter the man. He stepped forward, closer. Gave Geralt a chance to look him over. He’d changed as part of his ruse, and the rough linen work clothes were too big by half. He’d rolled up the sleeves to keep them out of the way, and Geralt could see finely muscled forearms dusted with dark brown hair. Strong fingers, which he’d already felt on his skin, clenched and unclenched at his sides. 

Something in Jaskier’s stance gave Geralt pause. “What?” he demanded. “Did you forget where the door was?”

The man chuckled weakly. But stepped closer _again_. “No.” He took a deep breath. “Have you company tonight, Witcher? Someone to soothe the savage beast, as it were?” Jaskier reached out. Hesitant. Fingers so close to Geralt and yet not touching. “I’d be interested, if you are.”

* * *

Of all the foolish things Jaskier had done in his short twenty-two years, propositioning a Witcher was in the top three of stupidity. The other two he refused to speak of even to this day, but the incident with the horse and the flaming torch had been bumped to a solid number four. Replaced by asking fucking _Geralt of Rivia_ if he wanted Jaskier in his bed.

Now that Witcher was staring at him, agog. Jaskier was suddenly concerned the man had bumped his head in their little tumble in the town square because his mouth worked but no sound was coming out. _If I die, so be it_. The thought rose giddily in his mind but he pushed it aside. The Witcher had a body to lust after, one that could fuel the creative fire and passion of a thousand sonnets and a hundred songs.

Or a few very bawdy plays.

Jaskier wanted to write paragraphs of description about him and yet keep the finest, most intimate details to himself. He burned with longing, stoked high and hot in a sudden spark, in a moment, the Witcher had tackled him to the ground and let him feel such power and strength. Gut punch aside, it had been a _glorious_ moment. He’d been able to think of nothing since.

Finally the Witcher said, “What?”

“You heard me,” Jaskier teased and dared - _dared_ \- to put a palm flat on that broad chest. “I’ve always had a thing for beautiful men and you, my dear Witcher, are the finest one I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Geralt’s nostrils flared. No lie in Jaskier’s scent. No flicker of unease on his face. It made no _goddamn_ sense. No one wanted a Witcher freely. “Get out,” he rasped, pointing at the door. “Just go.”

“No.” Jaskier squared his shoulders and shoved aside the worming sensation in his gut. “Not unless you truly won’t have me. Then I will go.”

Geralt gasped like a wounded man and stepped back, out of Jaskier’s reach. “No one wants a Witcher.”

Oh those words hurt. It felt like someone had reached inside his ribs and wrapped a gauntlet around his heart. “That is the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard Valdo Marx’s poetry. Witcher. _Geralt_.” Jaskier reached for him, brushing his fingers against the other man’s hand. Geralt jumped back and hissed between his teeth, face marred by pain and confusion.

Jaskier wasn’t one to press. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to -“ He looked toward the door. “I’ll go. If you change your mind…”

Geralt clutched at his hand as if he’d been burned. “I won’t.”

“Then I’ll go.”

Jaskier left without another word and didn’t glance back. 

After a long time spent staring at the door to his room, Geralt stripped out of his clothes and sank into the now lukewarm tub, then hung his head in frustration. Lambert had once told him that he was too stubborn to be selfish, and Geralt had just smacked him upside the head and snorted. But he hadn’t been wrong. And some part of him knew it wasn’t selfish to want the things that made humans write stupid songs and do weird shit that made no sense, like trying to concoct love potions. 

Wanting the touch of another was not selfish. But he’d long ago convinced himself it was. He’d done such a through work-over on himself that he’d just shoved aside a man - handsome, with very nice eyes - who sought him out. Who asked for his company and his touch. Geralt had managed to get in his own way once again and yet this time it burned. 

He stewed in that feeling while sitting in a chest-high tub of cooling water and suddenly, viciously hated himself. Hated that he couldn’t allow himself to want something closer to human for just a moment. Hated that he couldn’t accept the touch of another, even when freely offered. 

Geralt gripped the sides of the tub until the wood bit splinters into his palms and the boards creaked under his strength. He could break the damn thing, shatter it into a thousand pieces. He _wanted_ to. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Witchers don’t feel, everyone said. You take one look at their unnatural eyes and you know they don’t have an ounce of feeling in them.

They were wrong.

Witchers felt _everything_ , so they learned to push it away. Wrap them in chains, throw away the key, and bury those feelings six feet under and leave them to rot. Witchers killed their emotions so their emotions didn’t get them slaughtered. And Geralt was the best at it. His ability to shove it all aside had given him the gift of extra mutations, extra training. It made him stronger, faster, and more feared.

Witchers weren’t human. And yet they wanted all the same.

* * *

The next night, Geralt worked the graveyard while Lambert retraced the Signs and runes to keep any lingering malevolence at bay. It was dirty, tiring work, but when the sun began to rise their work was finished. No wraiths had appeared, no creatures had leapt out of the brush at them. Boring, but uneventful. Which meant Geralt could get some sleep.

He’d refused to reflect any more on what had transpired the night before; opting instead to fall back into the old comfort of forgetting and moving on. It was easier that way. 

Geralt parted with Lambert at the stables, already counting steps to the inn’s back door so he could sneak inside and get some sleep. As he rounded the corner, he bumped into another man. Bright blue eyes caught his and Jaskier gasped, then stumbled backwards with a hurried murmur of apology.

Fate was an odd duck sometimes, and apparently not totally giving up on him quite yet.

Before he could think on it, Geralt latched his hand around Jaskier’s wrist and pulled him in, feeling no resistance in the other man’s body as he pressed him into the wall. Before he could say anything, Jaskier batted those long, dark lashes at him. “Changed your mind?”

“Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO smut! Hopefully it's more tender smut (I just have a hard time writing hard/fast smut okay??)
> 
> Got a recommendation for a Jaskier origins AU? Leave a comment!
> 
> And if you like wolfpack polyamory, Witcher piles, and plenty of smut with a side of an ancient vampire, [Divine Pleasures of a Winter Fireside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908467) is where you want to go!

Geralt’s kiss was measured, precise, and insanely hot. Lips perfectly slotted against his, a steady press of tongue without demanding force. But Jaskier could tell he was holding back. The tense fingers curled into his collar, the ramrod stiffness of his spine, the hand on the wall beside his head….the man was wound tighter than a corkscrew.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier moaned, wrenching his mouth away as he panted. “While your reaction is encouraging, I’d rather not engage in such activities er….outside.”

The drumbeat of want in Geralt’s body didn’t subside, but a flicker of hesitation crossed his features. The man was right, of course, but he couldn’t help feel those words like a small rejection. With regret, he pulled away, letting his hands drop to his sides. “I should go,” he said, spinning on his heel.

A quick hand grabbed at his, the fingers warm and firm. “Now, did I say that?” The light in those blue eyes was teasing; the firm mouth, barely kiss-red, smirking ever so slightly. “Do you need directions, Sir Witcher?” The smirk grew and it made something coil in Geralt’s gut. “Need someone to boss you around a bit?” Before Geralt could respond, Jaskier pulled him to the inn’s back door. “Well come on then. I’ve a proper room with a bed and I will have you there.” His nose wrinkled. “Not up against some dirty log wall.”

 _I will have you there_. It rang in Geralt’s head, paired with the melody of that drumbeat, but doubt remained. Who was this man, to command him around? Geralt wanted to snarl and snap his teeth and at the same time, it was easy to follow. Easy to walk up the stairs, easy to watch the firm muscle of Jaskier’s ass as they ascended, and easy to be led by the hand into a room similar to Geralt’s and wait for the door to close.

Then Geralt moved. He pressed Jaskier into the door, vaguely recalling Lambert’s suggestion of fucking someone up against such a surface. Jaskier groaned and bucked into his touch and that little whisper of hesitation - of fear, of rejection - was wiped away by blue eyes that shone with interest. “You have a thing for walls and doors, I see,” Jaskier teased breathlessly.

Geralt hitched a knee between Jaskier’s and pressed it higher, making the man yelp. “Not usually,” he growled, ducking his head to nip at the temptation that was the corner of a round jaw. “Don’t usually get the chance to touch anyone so much.”

Jaskier gasped against the sting of teeth on his neck, his hands gripping Geralt’s shoulders like a vise. “Oh.” The word gusted out between his lips but the last thing Geralt wanted was pity. Sensing Geralt’s discomfort, or just watching his face perhaps, Jaskier cupped his palms around Geralt’s jaw, his expression serious. “You. Are. Gorgeous. And I want you.” He huffed a little laugh. “Strangely enough, wanted you from the moment you tackled me.”

A brick in Geralt’s wall started to crumble. “I punched you. Yelled at you.”

Jaskier gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m a performer. I’ve had worse. And you were trying to protect people. Can’t blame you for that.”

Geralt shook his head, disbelieving any of this was happening. “You are odd.”

That made Jaskier grin. “So I’ve been told.” He walked his fingers up Geralt’s armored chest. “Kiss me.”

Geralt blinked. _Another order_. He should be angered by that. Not riled up. Not feeling the pulse of heated blood through his veins nor the urge to obey. “Fine,” he growled, like it was a chore.

Jaskier only snickered in delight and yanked Geralt’s head down. Geralt’s lips were windchapped but warm, and the delightful burn of stubble left tingling trails on Jaskier’s sensitive face. When Geralt’s hands - big and rough and so, so steady - gripped Jaskier's waist, he gasped and canted forward. He wanted - needed - more.

“Off, all of it,” he demanded, for once glad he tended toward bossy. His players might grumble and grouse at his grand plans and schemes, but he never steered them wrong when it came to orders. And now he had a big, muscled (delightfully so) Witcher to command about and it thrilled Jaskier to his toes to watch Geralt begin to unlatch and unbuckle that armor. To watch him obey. If he hesitated, the Witcher’s face never showed it.

Those amber eyes were locked on Jaskier and his very kissable face. Unable to keep his hands to himself but not wanting to hinder the un-armoring process, Jaskier ran gentle fingers through Geralt’s hair, watching as the Witcher’s eyes fluttered ever so slightly. “You like that,” Jaskier purred, leaning into that hard body and letting Geralt feel the line of his cock against a muscular thigh. “You need to be taken care of, Witcher. Geralt.”

“Never told you my name,” Geralt grumbled, a perfunctory response as he dropped armor bits to the floor.

“Didn’t need to. I knew the moment I saw that black armor and white hair. Far too manly, far too _pretty_ to be anyone else.”

Jaskier’s words made the tips of Geralt’s ears turn red but mercifully the performer said nothing about it. If he could blush Geralt would have by now, but he felt the heat curl in his chest at the sheer want in Jaskier’s voice, at the grasping fingers on his shoulders and arms and in his hair.

Armor finally off, hair unraveling from its clasp, and down to a linen shirt and leather trousers and boots, Geralt felt naked under the other man’s gaze. The hunger there made him shiver. Had he ever been looked at like that before? No one - no willing partner (what few of them there were), no whore - no one had ever looked at Geralt like he was both wanted and needed.

It brought him up short and made him feel vulnerable at the same time. 

“You are gorgeous,” Jaskier breathed out, eyes wide. “But I said off, Witcher. All of it.” That gaze went steely, dark and velvety and demanding. “Now.”

Geralt had to obey. Something lodged deep inside, near his lungs, burned at the thought of not obeying. _Of being punished for his disobedience._

When he got to Kaer Morhen, he needed Vesemir to check him for ensorcellment. None of this made any goddamn sense.

“I’m going to do such things to you,” Jaskier said as he gave Geralt room to struggle out of his shirt. “I wonder if you’d prefer I kiss you breathless first or suck my way down that perfect chest of yours?”

His words, like a harsh wind, whistled in Geralt’s ears. He fought off the urge to laugh, or run away, or lash out in disbelief. Who was this man?

As if Jaskier could hear his thoughts, he chuckled darkly. “I’m no one special but dammit all if looking at you doesn’t make me feel like it.” Geralt looked away and flung his shirt - and his inhibitions - to a corner. Jaskier’s clever hands were hovering over his chest in an instant. “May I?” he asked, looking up through dark lashes.

“Yes.” It was all Geralt could manage for the sake of wanting.

“Anywhere?” Those fingers moved closer as the glint in Jaskier’s eyes darkened.

Geralt wanted to scream in frustration. “Yes,” he said, the word strangled, like a hand caught in satin. _Or wrapped around a wrist_. A flash of such things - his wrist in bondage, lashed to a bedpost, unable to touch as he wanted, wherever he wanted, left his throat dry.

Insistent hands pushed him back until his thighs hit the bed and then Jaskier was climbing over him, ripping his own shirt off without a shred of self-consciousness. Geralt knew some viewed him in a certain way, with hungry eyes that never looked beyond the surface and carefully avoided lingering on scars that reminded them of the hooks, claws, and teeth he’d been subjected to over his long decades. The things that reminded them of what he was.

Jaskier, however, looked _at him_. Almost through him. He felt seen, and desired, in equal measure and it rattled through his hollow bones like a bit of truth he’d longed to hear but knew would never be uttered. “Oh, you gorgeous thing,” Jaskier purred, running those clever, clever hands down Geralt’s chest. Geralt waited for the flinch when his fingertips would, inevitably, get caught on a scar or divot or bump.

And when it didn’t happen, Geralt blinked. And of course Jaskier noticed. “Something wrong?” Jaskier sat up, his lips having been just an inch from Geralt’s sternum. “You must tell me if so. I won’t have either of us uncomfortable.”

Geralt winced, turned his head away from that intense gaze. “You look at me differently.”

“How so?” There was honesty there, again, in that tone. It made Geralt’s chest hurt with its clarity. “Geralt.” A gentle hand turned his face and there was Jaskier, shirtless and flushed and already beautiful. Geralt understood action, how the efficiency of his body, its strength and vitality, worked. He understood its power and how to convey it through his hands and legs, how sturdy his frame was and how it could lift people away from danger or throw a monster off him so he could attack it once more.

He’d never been treated so humanly before. And it hurt.

“Let me,” Jaskier whispered, eyes on him as he leaned down to press a kiss to the hollow of Geralt’s throat, right above his medallion. Geralt shivered, tightened his grip on Jaskier’s biceps. “Let me.” Another kiss, this one below the cold metal. Another a few inches south, following his sternum. 

Geralt was dizzy with it, floating in a headspace he’d never been given the chance to explore. He didn’t even have the _vocabulary_ to describe what Jaskier was making him feel. The most frightening thing for him was to be vulnerable and yet in this moment, as Jaskier brushed his lips over skin and muscle, Geralt let it go.

He cracked open his chest and let go.

Geralt pulled Jaskier up into a kiss, hungry for the touch of another who didn’t flinch away from him. Jaskier made a delighted sound in the back of his throat and now, _now_ thank all the gods above, he _moved_. Geralt was chased by lips and hands, by a chest that brushed his, by hips that crashed against his. He was rolled over by the other man’s desire and he let it consume him.

There was a groan pulled from the base of his throat, a noise Geralt didn’t know he could make. Jaksier paused, his lips pressed against the side of Geralt’s chest. “All right?” He murmured, looking up.

Now he touched that hair that kept beckoning to him. Geralt carded his fingers gently through thick brown hair, watched as Jaskier closed his eyes with a grin and leaned into him. “Yes,” Geralt said, sounding more steady than he felt.

“Oh that’s….oh.” Jaskier bumped his head against Geralt’s hand. “Gods that feels good.”

It was another blow to Geralt’s chest. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jaskier hissed as Geralt pulled ever so lightly on the strands. “Mmph. Ah, Geralt, so good.” Deft fingers were hurriedly, messily undoing the buttons on his trousers, those fingertips teasing. In a haze, Geralt toed off his boots then thrust his hips up so Jaskier could peel the rest of his clothes off. The cool air of the room hit his throbbing cock and Geralt growled in response, lunging for Jaskier and those fussy pants he was wearing. Jaskier swatted his hands away with a teasing grin. “No way. These were expensive.”

“Get them _off_.” He settled for squeezing the temptation of those thighs before him. “Or they get ripped off.”

Jaskier moaned but complied, face starting to flush rather endearingly. When he was finally naked, Geralt wasted no time. He shoved the other man down to the bed, sunk to his knees, and licked up the base of Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier’s head fell back. A word stuttered out between his lips but there was no coherence to it. Just pleasure. Bliss. The warm, wet, talented mouth on his prick was sending little shocks through his whole body and Jaskier shivered, gripping the blankets with fingers hooked into claws. Tiny noises escaped him - growls, gasps, bit-off curses - and each one made Geralt’s fingers flex on the thin skin of Jaskier’s narrow hips.

The thick vein on the underside of Jaskier’s cock was a particular delight, rough and ridged under Geralt’s tongue; a contrast between the silky skin that slipped so easily into his mouth. As Jaskier bucked under his touch, Geralt pinned him down with one hand, wrapping the other around the base of his cock. A thrill went through Jaskier - pinned, trapped, held down by someone so powerful. But his touch was careful, as if Jaskier would break.

“Mmmm, Geralt,” Jaskier hummed, shoving his fingers back into that beautiful hair. “Gods you are murdering me. Dead, I am dead.”

Geralt pulled away from mouthing at the deep red head to give him a feral grin. “You talk an awful lot for a dead man.”

“Ha. Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

“You are - _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier half yelped, half moaned Geralt’s name as the Witcher unhinged his jaw and swallowed him down. Geralt’s mouth was, in Jaskier's opinion, perfection. Absolutely the right amount of suction, the right amount of pressure and oh, that devil tongue circling the head, teasing at the slit….

He closed his eyes and bucked into that touch and willed himself not to come so embarrassingly quickly.

Geralt felt Jaskier tense under him, tasted bitter salt, smelled the rise of musk and adrenaline. Slowly he withdrew his mouth but gave Jaskier’s cock a vicious squeeze. “Thank the gods.” Jaskier’s voice was distant over the roaring in Geralt’s ears, and the fingers in his hair that never pulled or demanded grew gentle. “I almost came. You bastard.”

In that moment Geralt decided the delicate wings of Jaskier’s hips hadn’t enough attention paid to them and he set about running his spit slick lips over them, tracing the arch of bones and lines of muscle. Jaskier babbled something about Witcher mouths being evil and Geralt snorted. “I can stop,” he said, his tone warning.

“Normally I’d threaten if you did but I’m…” He groaned and stilled his hips. “You’re a horrid tease.”

“Hmm.”

“Get up here.” Jaskier drew Geralt up into a filthy, fucked out kiss. Geralt’s long ignored cock slipped along Jaskier’s belly, precome already sticky on his skin. He loved all of it - the mess and the way Geralt had edged him and the heat of the other man’s body as he towered over him. Jaskier felt vulnerable and powerful at the same time; a heady rush that made him dizzy with delight. He let his hands wander and when they landed near Geralt’s ass, the other man thrust against him. “Really then,” Jaskier murmured, fingers seeking purchase lower.

Geralt was too caught up in the moment to fully realize that a whispered _please_ had escaped him but the bright grin Jaskier gave him told him something was up. “What?”

That grin grew, mischief alight in Jaskier’s eyes. “I would normally tease but I’m guessing that might not go over well.”

Confusion flitted over Geralt’s face. “That I prefer to bottom?”

Now those blue eyes widened. “A gift. I’ve been given a gift from the heavens and I shall not squander it.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Feels good,” he muttered, looking away. That flame of self-consciousness rose again but he didn’t get far.

Jaskier shook his head. He touched Geralt’s cheek gently. “You should never be ashamed of what you like. The rules for the universe are quite simple, my lovely Witcher. Do what you like as long as it harms no one, including yourself.” He frowned suddenly. “You don’t bottom because someone made you in the past, correct? No one forced you to -”

“No.” Geralt distracted himself by thumbing at Jaskier’s plush bottom lip. “I just prefer it.”

Jaskier responded by kissing up Geralt’s neck, sucking small marks as he went. Not enough to bruise - though he doubted he could do such a thing to a Witcher - but enough to let him feel blunt teeth. Geralt hissed and thrust against him, making Jaskier chuckle. “Darling, I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Jaskier slipped out from underneath Geralt and stalked across the room to his pack. “Settle. Get comfortable.”

Hesitation flickered over Geralt’s face again. Jaskier wanted to wipe that expression away permanently. It hurt to watch someone so lovely and brave doubt like that. “How do you want me?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Oh no. How do you want _me_?” He shot Geralt a cheeky grin. “No judgment here. I’m the one getting to plow that impossibly fine ass.”

Geralt snorted but as Jaskier turned away, giving Geralt a thin veneer of privacy, he debated. He was used to being taken facing away, and that usually worked. It was quick, impersonal. Something about this man and the way he talked to Geralt, the way he handled him….

Geralt laid down on his back and waited.

Jaskier fumbled through a few vials before landing on an inoffensive one. And when he turned around, the tableau of a naked Witcher sprawled out on his bed, amber eyes watching him closely, sent a shockwave through his system. Jaskier did his best _I’m absolutely not buckling at the knees at how beautiful you are_ walk back to the bed, letting his free hand skim over Geralt’s calf. Geralt’s cock, thick and hard and weeping with need, couldn’t be ignored any longer.

Jaskier swung his leg over Geralt’s, uncorked the vial, and tipped several fat drops of oil onto the head of Geralt’s cock. The man beneath him bucked up with a growl but Jaskier was quicker. He began to jerk Geralt off with precise, measured strokes, never taking his eyes away from Geralt’s. “Oh my gods, I can barely get my hand around it.” Jaskier gritted his teeth and worked his palm up and down the hard, hot line of Geralt’s cock, watching pleasure melt away the sternness in the Witcher’s jaw. “I’m going to take you right to the edge like you did for me, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

If Geralt had the vocal range or inclination to whimper, he would have. But he could palm the back of Jaskier’s head with one big hand and pull him down as he thrust up into the fist working him over. Geralt let his eyes close as they kissed and felt sure, for the first time, that he was being treated right. That he was safe.

A complete stranger. Taking him, fucking him, caring for him in a way he’d never experienced. 

And that was the last coherent thought Geralt had as Jaskier did something clever with his wrist, twisting down over his cock. Geralt saw stars on the edges of his vision and let loose a moan that should have rattled the walls.

Jaskier kissed along his jaw, enjoying the burn of stubble. He bit down on Geralt’s earlobe and nipped at the side of his neck. He followed the lines of his body with lips and teeth and tongue and Geralt clutched at him. He could feel the other man letting go, inch by inch, stroke by stroke and when he was finally, _finally_ panting and writhing below Jaskier, he let his hand drop so he could run his palms over the insides of thick thighs.

“Yes?”

Geralt nodded, eyes hazy and unfocused but present enough in mind to answer back. “Please.”

“Good.” 

Together they managed to shove a pillow under Geralt’s hips, letting him spread his legs and bare himself to Jaskier’s view. Jaskier had never been with someone so large, so impressive before and he should have been intimidated. Something else, something almost protective, rose up in him. 

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” he repeated, his words barely a whisper as he carefully watched Geralt’s face while he coated his fingers in oil. He saw Geralt swallow hard but he didn’t flinch, didn’t run away when Jaskier let his index finger glide behind thick, heavy balls. Geralt breathed in sharply, cutting off a quick thrust of his hips as he clawed the blanket and Jaskier, of course, noticed all of it. That finger circled Geralt’s hole; teasing, testing. The Witcher didn’t look away. 

Jaskier pressed gently, letting Geralt’s muscles relax around him, letting his body accept the intrusion. When the muscle finally gave and Jaskier felt the silk heat envelop his finger, he groaned and fell forward. He suddenly needed to kiss Geralt, to feel his tongue and his teeth.

Geralt was practically putty in his hands as he worked slowly, stoking that fire higher and hotter. Two fingers earned him a breathy groan and a vicious kiss that bit and bruised. Three got him a wide-eyed stare. And when he finally brushed against that bundle of nerves deep inside Geralt’s body, the Witcher broke.

“Fuck me,” he panted. He couldn’t take any more. Not without a cock inside him.

As if Jaskier could ever ignore such an invitation.

Jaskier took himself in one hand, ignoring the spurt of precome over his hand (because acknowledging that meant he was already so close and it was far too soon to be this keyed up) and lined up while pressing Geralt’s right knee out. “Beautiful man,” he whispered and pushed inside.

His control wasn’t going to last long, not the way Geralt’s body felt around him. Not the way Geralt’s eyes rolled up in his head nor the way hands grabbed at him, seeking purchase anywhere he could get it. Thick fingers bit into his skin and he’d have bruises and Jaskier didn’t care. He wanted to wear those bruises like medals. Like a Witcher medallion. He would parade naked in the village square to show off the handprints on his arms and hips.

To show how he’d taken and been claimed in return.

Geralt’s breathing kicked up, and every now and then Jaskier’s fine hearing caught breathy little pants or a tiny moan. “Faster,” Geralt said, the word bit off in a rush of desire. “Harder.”

Jaskier’s hips snapped forward, compelled to obey his lover’s demands. He drove into that body that welcomed him so freely, that accepted his kisses so completely. He felt sweat roll down his back and drip onto the bed but it didn’t matter. All he cared about was the man beneath him. To give pleasure in this way, to make him feel something other than pain and loneliness.

Geralt floated on a cloudy haze of bliss punctuated by sharp bursts of pleasure so intense it shook his entire frame. He was gripping Jaskier hard - probably too hard - but the other man didn’t seem to mind. At his command, Jaskier’s hips snapped forward and down, and his thrusts became beats like a staccato drum, a rhythm that made them both grab and hold on.

When Jaskier bottomed out it wrenched a moan from Geralt’s swollen lips. “Fuck!” For him, it was practically a shout but Jaskier just grinned and rolled his hips and pinched Geralt’s nipples and ….

It was all too much and not enough and Geralt felt he could explode for the sake of wanting more. Anything. Everything. Anything Jaskier would give him.

Jaskier pressed close, letting Geralt’s hips cradle him, and using the Witcher’s shoulders as leverage, began to bump against his prostate and now, _now_ Geralt’s vision went white. The obscene sounds of slick skin on skin, the gush of oil and precome in his ass, the sharp motions of Jaskier’s hips were all driving him to the edge so quickly it stole Geralt’s breath. He barely managed to sneak a hand between them and palm himself roughly, stroking his cock so fast he could have stripped skin. But he was chasing the thrill of pleasure, the rush of heat and he didn’t want it to end.

Jaskier’s movements began to stutter, his body glistening with sweat. The clutch of Geralt’s body on his cock was maddening. He was right at the edge and could tip over…. “Geralt,” he warned.

“Don’t pull out.”

Jaskier’s head lolled forward and he gave a long moan, letting Geralt’s body tighten around him before he came hard. Geralt felt Jaskier still above him, felt the heat rush through the other man’s body, smelled the sex and release lifting off his skin like fine cologne.

The scent was what did it. Everything else was perfect but Jaskier’s scent as he came was mouthwatering. It kicked open something inside Geralt, twisting his pleasure up with it, coiling around him and squeezing. Geralt came with a long, guttural groan, splattering his chest with seed.

Jaskier’s eyes were closed and he was slumped over Geralt’s body, but the grin on his face edged on giddy relief. They were a sweaty, sticky mess and Jaskier wanted to lick Geralt clean. But his muscles protested; still quivering from aftershocks that wracked his body with delicious little thrills.

Gentle hands helped lower him down to rest on a firm chest. Jaskier would have normally protested being laid on top of come-covered skin but he didn’t care. His softening cock slipped free and Geralt moaned at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “You’re a marvel,” Jaskier slurred, pressing sloppy kisses to Geralt’s jaw. “My gods.”

Geralt carded his fingers through sweaty dark hair, brushing it out of Jaskier’s eyes. He wanted to see them, to imprint that particular shade of blue on his memory. “Could say the same about you,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier mumbled something soft and warm at him, his fingers clutching Geralt like a lifeline.

_Is this what it’s like to be wanted? To be cared for? To know your body has more value than how it fights and protects?_

The thoughts rattling in Geralt’s mind should have made him squirm. They should have been knocked aside, tossed in a fire, thrown against a tree to shatter like fragile pottery.

And yet….

* * *

“So where does the Witcher head off to?” Jaskier asked as he attached one last bag to his horse’s saddle.

“Oxenfurt,” Geralt grunted before swinging up into his own saddle. “Got a contract for a wyvern just outside the city.”

Jaskier’s face broke out in a wide, sunny grin. “Oxenfurt! My home away from home. Turns out we’re bound the same direction, Geralt dear.” He winked and it made something tighten in Geralt’s chest. “Looks like you can’t get rid of me so easily.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier, now seated atop his horse like he was born to be there, and shook his head. “Didn’t say I wanted to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on Twitter @hallithedm and @terrible_party; [Patreon creating TTRPG publications and streams](https://www.patreon.com/hallithedm?fan_landing=true), and Twitch under terrible_party.


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